


Human Resources

by ZeNami



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-15 17:04:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1312549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeNami/pseuds/ZeNami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The line between being an Employee of Strexcorp and being the Property of Strexcorp is one of chalk dust that blurs easily at the slightest touch. Carlos receives a grim reminder that, although there is something innocent and simple beneath Night Vale's malevolent appearance, Strexcorp is the other way around--if their aesthetic could be described as innocent. If you stare into the sun for too long, you go blind, and the company responsible for it has no qualms with pulling the strings after that.... especially the cords tied around the wrists of the Voice of Night Vale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Static

**Author's Note:**

> OK, it’s finished, and proofread, and here you go—my first attempt at Night Vale fic, the first chapter. I hope you enjoy it. :]

"And so, in light of this week's events, all municipal roads south of Mission Grove Park are closed off for the following seven or eight miles, pending removal of the impermeable black haze seeping through the asphalt. The Sheriff's Secret Police are advising citizens to take the detour down Aspen road..."

_\- Impermeable black haze. Grove park--south._   
_\- Should probably check that out asap? Scan for materials or energy sigs similar to hazy figures encountered 14th july?_

Carlos scribbled notes hastily into the margin of the sheet he was already working on; some important graph or another, further local seismic activity studies. Now that he considered it, it didn't really matter right now. What was relevant _now_ , he observed, was an extremely flexible variable. Especially in Night Vale, where even variables were variant _in and of themselves_. He frowned. Was a tangent in thought qualifiable as a contemplative variable? A different solution to x?

He thought variably. He thought of the 14th of July. He thought of those hazy figures--he'd figured that one out last time... at the cost of... well. Maybe disappointing Cecil. He still regretted not inviting him in, but... he had certain responsibilities, as a scientist. And Cecil had certain responsibilities as a journalist, which he was brilliantly executing right now, as always, and Carlos was listening. As always.

Night Vale did have some constants, after all.

"Oh. I'm--I'm getting reports that there are yellow helicopters circling Grove Park. More than usual, apparently. Intern Courtney was able to send me a picture on her phone, _apparently_ before being absorbed into the black haze with a sound similar to being robbed of breath, and perhaps... existence. We... we don't know, and we may never know. ... To the family of Intern Courtney..."

Carlos grimaced and shook his head, setting his clipboard down to find some mobile energy signature reading equipment.

"Anyway, I'm looking at the picture she sent to my phone, and... there are _quite_ a few yellow helicopters, listeners. I would _definitely_ agree that there are more than usual, and, given the nature of the helicopters, of which we are all very well aware, this may implicate a certain corporation in potentially heavy involvement in the disappearance of Intern Courtney and many other citize--... I'm sorry. Our... Our new station manager, Lauren, is staring at me very intently through the glass. It's admittedly a bit unnerving. She is biting her bottom lip, which is bleeding, slowly, but it's... black... She is motioning to someone behind her. She is motioning to two men in sharp black suits and yellow ties. _I'm--!!_ "

And all of a sudden, Carlos jolted into full awareness of the radio at the sound of heavy pounding through the familiar faint static crackle. He stared at it across the room, holding his breath. "Cecil?"

"They are pounding on the door and demanding to be let in," came a breathy voice through that warm static, though it was raised, as if too far from the mic. "I've locked it but I may not have long. I am going to have a _talk_ with management about what I _am_ and _am not_ to report to you, Night Vale, though I will say I believe it is my professional duty to deliver an unbiased and honest mes--" _THUMP THUMP THUMP._

"I think I may have to take this brief moment," Cecil strained through the radio waves--perhaps through gritted teeth--"To bring you to the weather!!"

_THUMP **THUD**_. "No! No, don't--no, get your hands off me, I have a show to d--get--No! _No!_ "

And then the noise screeched to a halt, followed by the week's forecast in the form of lilting acoustic guitar.

Carlos thought, perhaps, that his pulse screeched to a halt as well, as he stared at the radio. He stared at it, face drawn taut in fear--no. Concern. He was... very concerned. He was lost. Unknowing. And not to know was, perhaps, the worst thing for a scientist.

"... Cecil?"

With a sudden realization of the weight in his pocket, Carlos lunged for his phone, dialing Cecil's number by memory and waiting. One. Two... three rings... and then--

"Hello! You've reached Cecil Palmer at Night Vale Radio. I can't pick up the phone right now due to circumstances unknown to you and _possibly_ unknown to me, but leave a message after the unearthly rattling, and I'll get back to to you as soon as I c--"

The scientist swore under his breath and ended the call, squeezing the phone until his knuckles were white.

Carlos did not know what had just happened.

And when the weather ended, and the station brought up only dead air, and the phone remained silent, he knew even less.

\---

It was getting late by the time Carlos heard the front door creak open, a sliver of pale moonlight striking a path across the hallway rug. Had the lights been on, he might not have noticed it, but he was too nervous to sleep and had been allowing the television to numb his over-analytical mind into a state of suspension. When there was nothing to be done for a situation--or one was powerless to get anything done--it was best not to think too hard about it. Cecil had told him that more than once. Not to think too hard about everything. Thinking could be dangerous, occasionally, but Cecil thought Carlos was brave for thinking all the time.

_Cecil._

Carlos stood abruptly from the sofa with a groan of old oak, tugging the old t-shirt he was wearing back down, and he stepped barefoot into the hall with a furrow of a concerned, thick brow. And there was Cecil, ultimately looking like he'd taken a long walk alone through the sand wastes, utterly exhausted, but... alive. And he smiled at Carlos, which, despite his fears, set him at ease.

"Sorry I'm so late, I..." Cecil trailed off, rubbing at his neck. His smile faltered, but then he shook his head, just as Carlos wrapped both arms around him and pulled him close, almost cradling the radio host's head. Cecil let his eyes close and allowed himself the luxury of relaxing in that warm, embracing circle. Home within a home.

"I heard on the radio today," Carlos murmured, staring over Cecil's shoulder at the closed front door, the smooth wooden frame worn down by so many years of sand-riddled desert air. "What happened, Cecil...? I heard them pounding down your studio door, and then..."

"...We had a talk," Cecil replied after a brief silence. When he pulled back enough to look Carlos in the eye, his expression was... uncertain. Hesitant. But then he nodded, abruptly becoming absolutely convinced of his answer despite the implications of more than a simple exchange of words. "Yes. We talked. We had a _misunderstanding_ , but it... got resolved. So there must not be anything to worry about."

Carlos wasn't sure if he was completely sold--his expression said as much. But looking at Cecil's weary face, at his drooping dark eyes and his slumped, obviously sore shoulders... he couldn't bring himself to delve into scientific inquiry. Instead, he gently rubbed those shoulders and let his fingers glide down his arms; he took Cecil's hands in his own, giving them a soft squeeze. Cecil sighed.

"Cecil," Carlos said with a knit brow, sounding perplexed. "There's blood on your neck. And your fingers. Are you...?"

Cecil blinked, and touched his bloody fingertips to the back of his neck, where a matching reddish smear was present. He frowned, briefly, but then laughed--a short, breathy sound. "Oh. I touched my neck earlier, when I came in, and, you know... the station doors..."

"Oh, right. Yes, of course. Obviously." Carlos sighed in relief, a bit embarrassed at having missed that basic connection. "I'm sorry, Cecil, it's just that you came back so late, and you didn't answer your phone, and your broadcast got cut off after the weather segment, and I today I was thinking about--about how there are so many variables among so few constants, and an absolute absence of evidence allows for a spectrum of infinite possibilities. What I mean is that _anything_ could have happened to you, and from my limited perspective and data I had no way of even forming a hypothesis that would be reliable in any way at all, and it's outside typical scientific method to do guesswork without the prefix 'educated', so I..."

Cecil smiled and placed a soft peck to the corner of Carlos's mouth, causing him to stammer slightly and then trail off, shoulders sinking as he looked off to the side.

"The only evidence you need right now is that I'm home," Cecil said softly, running both hands up gently into the thick, dark curls at the nape of the scientist's neck. "Let's focus on that for now. Let's focus on now."

Something in the waver of Cecil's voice warned Carlos that he was trying not to remember something--and he knew he should have been more concerned with that, he should have been pressing and investigating, but... no. Not right now. Right now, he didn't want to make anything worse. He just wanted to ease away Cecil's stress... and maybe his own. So he didn't protest when Cecil pulled him down those scant couple of inches with the cradling hold on the back of his head, and he stroked Cecil's cheekbone with his thumb as he kissed him.

\---

Carlos became aware that there was warmth missing from the bed as he stirred sometime in the middle of the night.

He wasn't sure what had woken him. A passing sense of self-awareness as he drifted out of REM sleep? The creak of a old house's floors, or... the faceless old woman who secretly lived in his home, pushing some article of furniture around downstairs...? Maybe it was a brief, passing shadow, something he hadn't quite seen in the corner of his eye. Spiders. Spies...

Or maybe it was just the absence of warmth itself. Acknowledging that the man he'd had his arm wrapped around as he fell asleep was... no longer there. That was it.

Carlos dragged his hand over the empty space, groggily opening his eyes. The sheets were still a little warm--couldn't have been gone long. "... Cecil...?" he murmured, slowly rolling from his side onto his back, hair mussed against the pillow--

\--and there was Cecil, as suddenly as a flickering porch light. Hanging over him, one palm planted beside his head. Cecil smiled.

Carlos did _not_ smile. There was something wrong.

Instead of the warm brown eyes he was so familiar with--the ones that were so often riddled with affection and a dreamy whimsy--there was... static. Cecil's eyes were _static_ , grey and flickering and buzzing like a broken television. His lips parted, and the static crackled from his mouth, too.

Carlos's breath hitched and he jerked out of his drowsy state, eyes going wide as he tried to sit up. Cecil's hand abruptly snapped to his wrist, holding him down. He was still smiling that crackling smile as he gently _shushed_ the scientist by pressing the pad of his thumb to his lips.

"Cecil," Carlos said, his voice unsteady. His pulse was suddenly racing, synapses firing, trying to understand an inexplicable situation. "Let me up. What's going on? Are you OK?"

"The timing is unorthodox," Cecil said, sounding as if his word choice were not his own. "But Strexcorp would like to meet with you at our earliest convenience."

Carlos tried again to jerk upward, but this time Cecil's hand clamped down over his mouth and nose and _pushed_ him down into the bed, restraining him with a strength that was--like his words--not his own.

Carlos's wide eyes were frantic, staring up in shock and a sudden start of cold dread as he struggled and kicked, trying to throw Cecil off of him. But the slight host rapidly straddled his waist so he could use his full weight to hold him down, to hold the stale air in his lungs, to keep him cut off from the oxygen his nervous system was screaming for. And Carlos realized with a dawning horror that he was getting _tired_ , getting _dizzy_ , getting...

A muffled whimper was all he could manage, forearms shaking as his iron grip on Cecil's wrists weakened. Brow furrowed in confusion, eyes watering from the strain, the last thing he saw was that _static smile_ on Cecil's calm face before his vision fell to the void and his consciousness followed suit.


	2. Sick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand here we go into chapter 2. I'm a little worried about my pacing this time around but I hope it's not too sudden. Ennnnjoy ♥

Carlos stirred for the second time that night--if it was still, in fact, night--and found himself lying on his side on deep maroon cushions, head throbbing and glasses askew.

He sat up slowly, trying to get his bearings. Trying to remember what had happened... the last instance he could recall was one with Cecil's hands on his face, cutting off his air supply until he passed out. The notion sent a chill through him and he grimaced in distaste, licking the inside of his mouth as if trying to get rid of it. He refused to believe Cecil would hurt him deliberately--not after all they'd done, and had lived, and suffered, and enjoyed. That couldn't be it. He pushed the notion aside for now.

He was on a couch. In front of the couch was a glass-top coffee table; the room was otherwise empty, and also lacking in any windows or doors. The walls were a dull sort of cream yellow that reminded him of buttermilk, or... tooth enamel, maybe. The corner of his mouth pulled to one side and he pushed curls of black hair out of his face, reaching behind his head to redo the ponytail he kept his overgrown hair in.

And it was only when he finally looked up from this task that he noticed he was not alone.

The scientist jolted abruptly with a sharp, nasal inhale--where there had been no one before, there now stood a man. A man out of thin air, he thought, since there was no obvious way in or out of this room, and he hadn't heard so much as a footstep.

The man was watching him the way a biologist would study a rat in a cage; it was a quiet and objective observation. His eyes were blue and glassy, his chestnut hair immaculate. His skin was _flawless_ , to a point where it almost didn't look real; it struck a chord of _uncanny valley_ with Carlos, straddling the border between believable and unreal not unlike an antique porcelain doll. He had a smooth jawline and perfect, white fingernails, hands loosely clasped in front of his belt buckle--he wore a yellow tie, polished black shoes, and a dull grey suit.

"So kind of you to join us on such short notice," he said. His voice reminded Carlos of a GPS. A little too smooth and polite. "We were hoping you do us a little favour, Carlos. We've done everything we could to make sure you're comfortable..."

"Who are you?" Carlos asked, standing up and straightening out his clothes--still the t-shirt and plaid cotton pants he'd fallen asleep in. This flustered him slightly and he spent a bit too long fussing with the bottom of his shirt, wishing for the security of his familiar labcoat. "Why am I here? What is this place? Where's Cecil? What did you do to him? How did--"

"Now, see," the man interrupted, holding up both hands and waving them dismissively, "this is exactly why I didn't want to be here. You ask too many questions." His eye was twitching. "Let's start with the first one and move on from there, OK? This meeting has a preset itinerary and I have _other things_ to do today. Time management, you know. My name is Daniel."

"... Night Vale Radio's producer, Daniel?" Carlos inquired, expression quizzical. His wringing hands fell to his sides, slowly.

Daniel nodded, rolling his head to the side in a gesture that gave the appearance of nonchalance, or possibly exasperation. "I have no doubt you have even more repetitive and annoying questions about what happened at the station today, since Lauren is about as subtle as a sunset and equally as loud."

Carlos hummed in acknowledgement, but he was distracted simply in _watching_ this man. This Strexcorp representative, he supposed. There was an unsettling... _stillness_ to him? Was that it? He was very, very still. There were no natural, unconscious movements. Even the way he spoke didn't seem quite right...

"No?" Daniel asked, after Carlos's silence dragged on a bit too long. "Good. Then maybe we can get to the p--"

"I was _thinking_ ," Carlos snapped in short tone, obviously frustrated. He sighed, rubbing at his temple in small circles, stepping around the coffee table. "I'm not going to do you any favours until you tell me what's going on. You did something to Cecil, didn't you? He wasn't himself--well, he _was_ , but he _wasn't_ , because I'm at least 98 percent positive--2 percent margin of error, of course, that's a given--anyway, almost _completely_ positive he didn't knock me unconscious of his own free will."

"Cute," Daniel chuckled; it was a dry, forced laugh, as artificial as the smug smile that pulled the corners of his mouth. "You actually believe in free will? That's so naive. But we'll go along with your fantasy for a moment..." That eye twitch worsened a moment, and the smile dissipated, but Daniel only paused a moment before continuing. "Strexcorp has decided to take a different approach in managing censorship," he explained, his hands returning to their previous fold. "Cecil Palmer is more of a liability than an asset to the company at this... juncture. By extension, your close relationship with him makes you a liability as well. What we're looking for is a simple guarantee that you will not interfere with Strexcorp's decision-making."

"... and what have you decided?" Carlos asked, suspicious. His stomach twisted into a tight knot, joining the discomfort in his head and the pit of his chest. He felt tense as a taut wire, ready to buzz with noise at the first brush or contact. He felt helpless and trapped, and it wasn't just the doorless, windowless room. He didn't like this. He didn't like where this was going...

"Cecil needs to be put on a tighter leash," Daniel said. A thin smile cut the pale line of his lips. "We've gone ahead and done that. When the re-education process is complete, he will say only what we deem appropriate for our listeners. It worked wonders in Desert Bluffs--I have no idea why it took HQ so long to get around to it here, but believe me, I can't wait for my job to get a whole lot easier. I'm sick to death of trying to keep the NVCR staff in line."

"You're just going t--you're just going to force him to think the way you like?" He curled his fingers into his palms, bristling. "Cecil is a human being. A bright and creative and thoughtful _human being_. You can't just remake him the way you want him--"

"What makes you _think_ ," Daniel hissed, a hint of black oil in his perfect teeth, "Strexcorp gives a _damn_ about Cecil's humanity? You're a scientist, Carlos. Use that smart little organic brain of yours. This isn't up for debate. I'm telling you what's happening and you need to accept it, and cooperate, or things are going to get much worse for you and your _mouthy little boyfriend_."

_Alright then, no._

Carlos closed the distance between them in a few quick strides, angrily grabbing Daniel's lapels. "Your answer is _no_ ," he snarled, dark eyes reflecting an almost uncharacteristic aggression. At the same time, Carlos noticed two things.

He noticed that Daniel didn't move a fraction of an inch, despite the laws of physics indicating that the inertia present should have affected him--and the reason he was so still was that he wasn't breathing.

Carlos was immediately confused, and mildly horrified, and slightly curious--but his anger had him holding fast to that grey suit jacket, refusing to back down. He felt like he had his fingers fisted in a solid wall, but he didn't back down. "No," he repeated, drawing in a shaky breath. "You can't do this to him and I'm not going to help you by just standing aside. I didn't make it this far and survive this long by passively letting things happen! A scientist is--a scientist takes an active role, he--"

"Oh, shut up," Daniel groaned, grabbing Carlos's shirt collar with both hands.

Carlos's startled cry of pain was underscored by the sound of shattering glass and splintering wood as he was thrown onto the coffee table, landing him in the wreckage of it. He had no idea how that kind of strength came from a single man--he was sure he weighed at least 175 pounds--except that he was now sure the man wasn't a man at all. An android? Some kind of... some kind of Strex AI...?

His back arched in pain and he whined, trying and failing to get up. Daniel stood over him, absently correcting the cuff of his shirt and the sleeve of his suit, sparking and crackling faintly.

"If you won't listen to me," Daniel said, glassy eyes as cold as their colour, "then maybe you'll listen to someone else. I'm sure you can be convinced to work with us. Everyone works with us in the end, Carlos. It's better for them. Don't you want to live in a happy, smiling world of solutions and conclusions? Where every problem is solved? Where we already have all the answers?"

"A world with no more questions?" Carlos wheezed, wincing as his palm pressed into splintered wood while he tried to get up. He glared up at the automaton, straight teeth clamped together in a defiant snarl. "Sounds like a nightmare. Do you know why I love this incredible, inexplicable town? My _home_?"

Daniel didn't answer; he merely stared. Carlos took the invitation to go on.

"Because I _never_ run out of questions. And a scientist lives for discovery. If that makes me brave, or stupid, or both, then fine. But I'm _happy_ here."

Black oil trickled from the corner of Daniel's mouth. He smiled that sick, artificial smile; he didn't open his mouth, but he spoke, the sound of his voice disturbingly incongruent with his immobile face.

"You're not happy. You can't be; you're imperfect. You're only human."

\---

There was something bizarrely generic about this place, Carlos thought. Between being escorted down various empty hallways by Daniel's stiff synthetic hand, and trying to get his bearings, he found it utterly impossible to figure out how he'd been in a doorless, windowless room and then _not_ , and then dragged down so many nondescript and unmemorable paths, only to be barred into what felt like a dark clinic's reception.

"Wait here," Daniel said sternly, and then he was gone.

Carlos wasn't sure how much time passed in that room. Not that time was real, or meant very much at all, but it was a useful sort of place-marker.

There were clocks on the walls--the stark, nearly bare walls, but for the occasional slogan-slathered Strexcorp promotion--but he had no way of knowing how accurate the clocks were, or when he'd arrived here in the first place in order to draw a comparison. There was a light on the wall; sharp, geometric red letters glowed down at him.

_Procedure in Progress._

"What procedure...?" Carlos muttered, trying to peer under the door, ear pressed to the floor. No use.

Time dragged. Time pulled. Time stood still and it mocked him, the hands of the clock spinning at their leisure, absent fingers tracing the same circles again and again. Carlos meandered about the small room, inspecting and investigating; he leaned over the reception counter, peering into the empty booth. No one, nothing, only nondescript paperwork, and... what was that?

He reached across to the back of the chair, pulling a long, white coat from the canvas seat cushion. It was a doctor's coat, apparently abandoned; the Strexcorp logo was emblazoned across the back. He held it up in front of himself with pursed lips, heavy brow knit in consideration--and then he put it on.

It wasn't a lab coat, not really, but looking down and seeing white sleeves and a notebook pocket put him at ease. A little bit. He could easily pretend there was no logo while it was out of his line of sight. Ignorance was far from bliss, but sometimes it was a good placebo.

Still, he fretted. He worried. He felt like he was without footing, scrabbling through some unpredictable event without a single scientific instrument to evaluate it--not so much as a pen.

A pen...

Carlos plucked the writing implement from the reception counter, turning it in his fingers. It was a plain, plastic, standard blue ball-point. It had been a while since he'd seen one, besides the secret stash in his lab (which Cecil was courteous enough not to bring up or question). He tucked it into his borrowed coat pocket.

He heard a _howl_ from behind that door.

There was no better word for it--it was a _howl_. Something jagged and splintered by agony and terror, scratching the borders of humanity in its tone. But Carlos knew that voice, and it left shards in his heart and panic in his head.

 _Cecil_.

He was back on it in a second, not quietly sneaking around this time but slamming his fist against the solid white panel. "Hey!!" he shouted, temple pressed to the cold surface. "Open this door! Open this _damn door_!"

He could hear whining and some kind of struggle on the other side. Something like a low, rattling moan.

"Cecil!" Carlos grabbed the handle, twisting and rattling and pulling until his knuckles were white. He had to get in there. He had to. Whatever procedure was in progress needed to _cease_ progress, and probably be _un-progressed_ , or--or something far worse than the limitations of human imagination might happen. How could he know? Not until he opened this door--

He pushed the handle down so hard that the cold brass cut into his fingers, and he swore in Spanish but didn't relent, lifting his feet off the ground and slamming down at a calculated diagonal angle. His weight combined with the applied force caused the wood to splinter around the handle--budget was obviously tight for door quality control, he might have thought--and the lock inside was no longer supported by anything, coming loose from the wall. He threw the door open, panting.

He wished he did not see what it was he saw, because he was sure that no amount of avoidant thought would ever completely erase it.

There was Cecil--surrounded by men in white coats identical to the one Carlos wore, and held down to a table. He was shaking like a dry leaf in a cold wind, still only dressed in the cotton pyjama pants with that god-awful paisley pattern on them that he'd worn to bed. Carlos couldn't see what they were doing, not clearly, but the amount of black sludge mixed with the organic sheen of _blood_ on the table and floor were more than enough to be disconcerting.

"Excuse me," one of the staff members--scientists? Doctors?--said, sharply turning her head toward Carlos. "The procedure light is _on_."

"Get away from him," Carlos snarled, closing the distance and pushing between two of the staff. Strangely enough, they didn't question him beyond that, only staring at him expectantly. Almost as if he were an unplanned but _logical_ algorithm in some kind of pre-planned program.

The coat. He was wearing a Strexcorp coat. Did he look like someone else?

"Sir?" One of the men said.

Carlos snapped into the role, shaking his head and looking at Cecil. He couldn't tell how much of the blood actually belonged to him, but the black sludge... it was everywhere. It was bubbling, like hot tar, but it didn't seem to be burning him--only sticking, clinging.

It blotted out the violet eye tattooed on Cecil's forehead, trickling down the bridge of his nose.

Something about that felt horribly, horribly _wrong_ to Carlos, and he sucked in a breath, struggling to keep his composure. Play this... _intimidating_ role he was filling, that he didn't understand... but a scientist was used to working in situations he didn't understand. "I need to take him," he said, sliding an arm under Cecil's shoulders. "Now."

He lifted Cecil bodily from the table, grunting slightly from the effort. He wasn't incapable of it, and Cecil was actually pretty light, even as a deadweight, head lolling into Carlos's shoulder with a dim groan. "Don't follow me," he added, and then glared around at the workers in their identical white coats and identical white latex gloves. " _Get back to work_. Clean this up."

The last order seemed to make something _click_ , as they all scrabbled to be productive and to be efficient about it.

It was enough cover for Carlos to cradle Cecil to his chest, blood and black ooze and all, whisking him out of the room, hoping to whatever powers or masters being that he could find his way out.

Hoping to whatever powers or masters being that Cecil would be alright.


	3. Void

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad you guys are enjoying this! Hope I can keep it interesting for you. I'm having fun. :]

The reasonable level of paranoia Carlos had developed over the past year or so had a tendency to serve him well; he was a man of science, of course, but being able to imagine and project the worst case scenario often led to a methodology that avoided the more unpleasant possibilities. The worst he could imagine right now was not something he really wanted to think about—not with Cecil cradled in his arms, breathing shallow, his face smeared with blood and some unidentifiable black sludge—but lesser horrors were still possible, such as not being able to get out of here.

He was beginning to think that might be the case as he turned yet another corner in the blank, featureless halls; it was nearly impossible to tell where he’d been and where he hadn’t, except for the occasional smear of red or black where his hands brushed the white walls. Somewhere, he could hear voices—curious muttering. Calls of alarm. The breath of whispers nearly imagined just before falling asleep alone, their sources out of sight but unfortunately not out of mind… They were looking for him. They were looking for Cecil.

He wouldn’t let them have him, he thought.

The next hall seemed to stretch on forever. Cecil’s weight was beginning to wear on him. The adrenaline was wearing off, so the distance felt worse than it likely was, and Carlos could feel sweat beading at his greyed temples…yet he had no choice but to press on. He walked, and he slumped into the wall now and then, and he leaned in to make sure Cecil was breathing. The short, rasping sound was faint but reassuring…

At long last, there was a door.

Carlos bit his lip and shoved his shoulder into it, struggling to get a grip on the metal handle with one hand under Cecil’s shoulders; after a moment he managed it, and stumbled into a dark space. It was illuminated faintly by green light—a computer display at the far end, softly glowing, softly whirring. And there was a voice.

_Forty nine. Seventy six. Twenty four._

Carlos’s eyes widened behind his skewed glasses. He knew this place. He remembered it from Cecil’s broadcast—the bunker that housed _WZZZ_.

The room was more or less bare, except for the computers. Carlos cast about a moment, looking for somewhere to set Cecil down, but in the end, he was forced to settle for the desk. He rested his ailing boyfriend down on the floor against the old oak, and then he was back on his feet, sweeping around the bunker. Among less useful things—a fire extinguisher, a fire blanket, some old PC towers, a broken satellite dish—he found a light switch, and a few clean cloths likely meant for removing dust from the equipment. He was inwardly kicking himself for being without his field bag, but it wasn’t as if they would have had the courtesy to bring it along when they _used_ Cecil to essentially _kidnap_ him in the middle of the night.

Scowling to himself, Carlos knelt down in front of Cecil, using one of the cloths to wipe blood and sweat and black ooze from his face, cradling his cheek with the other hand. Concern deepened the creases in his face, rooting deep in his thoughts; he had no idea what exactly was wrong with Cecil, or why he wasn't waking up. His pulse felt normal, and he was breathing rhythmically, if not shallow, but...

It took only a moment longer for Carlos to realize that the black ooze wasn't only on the surface. Cecil's pores seemed to be _producing_ it. As quickly as he wiped it away, more took its place, obscuring the ink of his forehead tattoo as groundwater seeping up through soil.

That wasn't normal.

"What did they do to you?" he breathed, trying not to admit to himself the fear that was winding through him, pinching his chest from the inside. If he knew what had happened, he would know what to do, he thought. But he didn't--he hadn't had time to ask questions, or look around that nightmarish operation room, or... anything that a scientist should have done, really. It would have been embarrassing if he weren't preoccupied with the gradually seeping dread that seemed to mirror the black mess on Cecil's face.

Almost without considering it, Carlos started to gently wipe and smear the mess from his skin again, no matter how futile it apparently was. He couldn't help it--he just wanted to do... something. Anything, really. Anything to feel like he was helping, or making some sort of difference... and in the meantime, he could think.

He could think about what they could do to get out of this. Where they could go, or... couldn't go. So much of the town seemed to be owned by the people who were probably hot on his tail, after all. He was almost certain that if he stepped outside, those yellow helicopters would be there, and they wouldn't get far, especially with Cecil incapacitated like this...

His lab, though. He needed to get back to his lab. If he could get there, he could call in his team, and then maybe they could figure this literal mess out--it was all over his fingers now, but he was so deep in thought that he barely cared--

Cecil groaned.

Carlos froze, watching him wide-eyed from behind his frameless lenses, a thumb still resting against his smudged cheek. "Cecil?"

Cecil squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, as if trying to block out even the dim amber light of the bunker, one of his hands coming up slowly to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Bright," he rasped, his voice as dry as Night Vale's harbour. "It's so bright. Is that you, Carlos...?"

There was something... _off_ about Cecil's voice. It was... lighter. More... lilting? It lacked the heavy honey undertones that Carlos had once become infatuated with over a year ago. It was as if it had been scrubbed, or stripped... Carlos wasn't sure. It was difficult to describe.

It was when Cecil opened his eyes that Carlos knew for certain that _off_ was an understatement.

"Oh my god," he half-yelped, startled enough to fall back on his tailbone on the cold cement floor, the bottom of his Strexcorp labcoat crumpled beneath him. Cecil stared across at him, blinking slowly, squinting heavily.

His eyes were black--black as obsidian--a void that was _cold_ and _empty_ and frightened Carlos down to his core.

"Carlos? What's the matter?" Cecil asked--that sweetness in his voice was much more obvious now. He laughed as he winced, shadowing his eyes from the dim overhead light with a raised forearm, that black sludge dripping down alongside the bridge his nose. "It's so bright..."

"Cecil, your _eyes_ ," Carlos answered, his tone tight with alarm as he sat up on his knees, watching the radio host warily. "There's something wrong--"

Cecil was already shaking his head. "There's nothing wrong, Carlos. Nothing at all. In fact, I've never felt so... _liberated_. Ahh, that must be the word. It feels so right. I feel as light as a feather." Cecil beamed. He smiled. But it wasn't a smile.

Carlos loved Cecil's smile; it was always genuine, illuminated by a sense of wonder. The smile on his face now was... it was _wrong_. It was merely a seventeen-muscle facial contraction resulting in the recoil of the corners of his lips, showing teeth, a tongue pressing to the back of enamel still faintly stained with blood.

The silence of the next few seconds was filled only with the rhythmic pulse of numbers streaming from the computer; a soft, feminine voice broken by a single chime.

When Carlos failed to answer after that, Cecil went on, apparently oblivious to the black trail now just touching the bow of his upper lip. "Carlos," he chuckled, "Don't give me that look... I told you I'm fine. I'm wonderful. I'm perfect."

Carlos tensed as if he'd been bitten. "No, you're not." The fear was escalating.

"I feel perfect," Cecil answered with an incline of his head. That smile was still there, distorted and incongruent. "So I must be perfect. I must."

"I don't want you to be perfect," Carlos said so quickly that he nearly interrupted his boyfriend. His voice was shaking, a taut wire vibrating from a mounting sense of panic. "Can you even hear yourself, Cecil? You know better. Please tell me you still know better."

"Well I know better _now_ ," Cecil hummed, amused. "To think I've been so blind when the solution has always been so obvious. Why fight when we can just... accept the perfection we were always meant for? Why aren't we striving for that?"

Cecil reached for Carlos's hand. The scientist recoiled, his dark eyes frantically searching for a different solution. He didn't know what that was, yet--a way out, something to knock some sense into Cecil, something--

"Why are you running from that?" Cecil said more seriously, his smile falling, blackened eyes wide. The tar-like liquid dripped now over his lips, down the angle of his chin.

"You're scaring me," Carlos said, shaking his head.

"Trust me," Cecil answered, his smile flickering back like a radio being tuned back in. "You shouldn't be scared. You should be happy. Smile, Carlos."

"No." Carlos curled his fingers against the concrete, shoulders coiled up.

" _Smile_ ," Cecil hissed.

The speed with which Cecil moved was uncanny for his condition. Carlos was slammed into the floor on his back, Cecil's hands on his face--he kicked and struggled reflexively, yelps half muffled by Cecil's prying fingers. The black tar-like substance dripped onto Carlos's face as he fought, gasping. Cecil worked to pull back the corner of his mouth, fingernails digging painfully into his gums, into the flesh of his cheek.

Carlos didn't know if Cecil was trying to force him to smile, or trying to pull teeth with his bare hands. Either way, he choked and cried out in pain, doing the only thing he could think to do without being able to _think_ \--fight back. He twisted his upper body underneath Cecil, just enough to give himself a better angle--and threw a punch, socking Cecil so hard in the jaw that he fell into the desk chair nearby with a shout and a groan, curling in on himself as the resulting aches set in.

"I didn't wanna do that," Carlos wheezed, scrambling to his feet and rubbing his mouth, wincing. The corner of his mouth was stained red and he could taste copper. "You're not yourself. You're not--!"

Cecil climbed slowly to his feet, leaning heavily on the desk. He glared at first--almost animalistic--but then his face softened as if he were emerging from a dream; he looked at Carlos sadly. Disappointed.

"I don't know what came over me," he answered, voice quiet and unsteady. "I just... I suddenly-- ... I don't know. I thought I could make you understand. Maybe later."

Carlos's shoulders sank, slightly. He shook his head, still wary. "Sure. Let's go with that."

_Eighty four. Twenty nine. Ninety six._

"Listen," Carlos continued, grabbing at confidence in the beat of quiet between them. He could work with this--he could make this work. Maybe prevent any more violent outbursts. "We need to... We need to get out of here. But we need to do it very quietly, OK, Cecil? And then you can explain it all to me all you want, as long as it takes, I promise."

That seemed to appease Cecil, who relaxed into a dreamy smile. "Good. Where are we going?" The black ooze dripped onto his tattooed chest, unchecked. He was acting like a surgery patient still full of morphine. He was also starting to shiver.

"My lab," said Carlos, picking up one of the cloths and wiping blood from his mouth, licking it from the inside of his cheek with a grimace. "We need to do science."

There was a heavy pounding on the bunker door.

Carlos jolted and swore, leaving Cecil to absently stare at the glowing computer screen while he himself rushed to the wall, lifting himself on his toes to peer through the bunker window. He could see yellow helicopters. They hovered like ugly goldenrod vultures, branded with that damn orange triangle Carlos was quickly coming to hate.

The door was slammed on again, shaking this time. Carlos felt his heart jump into his throat as he looked around, frantically, for something to use as a weapon. If they had to fight their way out? So be it. He wasn't much of a fighter, but he had been told he was brave. He also knew himself to be resourceful. That was the third thing a scientist was. Or was it the fourth?

He spotted something he'd set aside earlier; a flash of red in the corner of his eye. That'd do.

"Cecil, sit down, please," he said quietly; checking to make sure Cecil did as he asked, he waited.

The door hinges creaked, and heaved. The entire heavy metal slab creaked and then hit the floor with a heavy _CRASH_ \--

Carlos took that moment to blast the doorway with the fire extinguisher, throwing up a choking white cloud that smothered whoever came through first. The largest figure, obscured in the haze, reached out for him, grabbing his arm, forcing him to drop the tank. Desperate, the scientist struggled and slid his hand into his pocket, snapping the plastic pen in half and shouting--half in fear, half in fury--as he swung his makeshift shiv at his assailant's face.

The man caught his wrist. Carlos froze, eyes wide, sweat beading at his temples.

"That's contraband," a distorted voice said.

Carlos sighed as he was released, though he stared up in shock at the man as a few others clad in black pooled in behind him; as the cloud dissipated, he saw that the one in front, wearing a cloak now covered in white from the frontal assault, had a large silver star pinned to his chest.

Carlos let loose a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Sheriff."


End file.
